Lawrence Sanders - Private Pleasures

I liked it, a real "boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl" story. I'd have to work out the details, but I thought the basic idea was a winner. There would be misunderstandings, of course, perhaps even arguments, but eventually Tommy and Lucy would get together and live happily ever after.

But that finish, I realized, didn't have to be the end of Tommy Termite. He and Lucy could marry, have children, and future books could be about the termite family, their tribulations and victories. I began to see it as a Termite Saga that went on for generations.

"No children?" I had once asked Cherry Noble.

"No," she said stiffly. "Not yet."

"You have time," I assured her.

She looked at me strangely. "Do I?" she said.

It was a wasted weekend, Gertrude insisted on visiting her dull family in West Palm Beach. Those people are antiques, and all they talk about are friends who fell and broke their hips and how slow Medicare payments are. It was enough to drive a man to drink which it did.

But the new week brought a lovely spring morning. After I made a few phone calls and dictated a few letters, I went outside to the private practice putting green I had installed behind the laboratory. I spent an hour there and didn't do too badly. I sunk one 18-footer that was a lulu.

I went back inside, and Mrs. Collins told me Gregory Barrow had asked if he could see me for a few minutes.

I glanced at my watch. "Tell Barrow to come up now," I said.

"If he stays more than ten minutes, you barge in and remind me of some appointment I'm supposed to have."

"Yes, Mr. McWhortle," she said.

I settled down behind my desk and lighted my first cigar.

The company doctor wants to limit me to two a day, and I rarely smoke more than four.

Barrow came in, and I knew immediately he had a problem.

The man is a world-class chemist but a real worrywart. He gets these two vertical lines between his eyebrows, and that means something is bothering him.

"Mr. McWhortle," he started, "it's about this ZAP project for the government."

"I'm glad you reminded me, Greg," I said. "I had a phone call from Colonel Knacker. He said from now on ZAP should not be called a diet additive but always referred to as a diet enrichment."

"Yes, sir," Greg said, "but what I wanted to speak to you about were the moral and ethical implications of the project.

I've been doing a lot of thinking about it, and it seems to me we're treading on dangerous ground here."

"How so.

"First of all, Colonel Knacker never explicitly stated that the combat soldiers will be told they're receiving a drug to make them more aggressive. I think informed consent is absolutely necessary if the government wants to avoid a scandal if ZAP becomes a matter of public knowledge."

"I see what you mean, I said, "and you're probably right. I think the best solution would be to announce the existence of ZAP, if it proves successful. Then put on a big public relations campaign to sell it to the enlisted men and women and to the American people as a harmless diet enrichment that will give our soldiers an edge in combat."

I could see he was not totally convinced.

"No one is going to be fed a drug without his or her knowledge, Greg,"

I said softly. "I'd never allow that to happen.

But, believe me, when soldiers are told about the aggressive spirit ZAP will give them, they'll be happy to gulp it down because it will increase their chances of survival."

"I guess you're right, Mr. McWhortle," he said finally.

"Was that all you wanted to talk about?" I asked him, knowing it wasn't.

"One other thing," he said. "If soldiers are fed testosterone before going into battle, isn't there a danger that in addition to attacking the enemy they may also turn to slaughter, mutilation, rape, and other excessive forms of violent behavior?"

"Why, Greg," I said gently, "that depends on the strength of the dosage, does it not? And that's your job. The product you develop must be strong enough to achieve the result we want but not so powerful that it results in those horrendous acts of savage brutality you mentioned. If I didn't think you could do it, I wouldn't have handed you the assignment. You're the best chemist in the house, Greg. I know that, and I'm depending on you."

"Yes, sir," he said, standing. "Thank you, Mr. McWhortle."

Those worry lines were gone from his face. He was such an innocent.

"And remember, I cautioned him, "absolute secrecy is a must. Not a word of this to anyone."

The moment he was out of the office, I looked at my watch again and picked up my private phone.

The line doesn't go through our switchboard. I called Jessica Fiddler.

She picked up on the second ring.

"Hello, Jess honey," I said. "It's Mac. Got time for me?"

"Oh, daddy," she said huskily, "I was hoping you'd call.

I'm out at the pool in my new bikini. Bright red! You'll love it.

Can you come over now?"

"On my way," I said, and hung up.

"Got a golf date, Mrs. Collins," I told my secretary. "If anything important comes up, you can leave a message at the club."

"Yes, Mr. McWhortle," she said.

Life can be beautiful.

I had bought the house for Jessica. It was in her name, the best investment I ever made. it wasn't a mansion, but it was a comfortable two-bedroom ranch with a patio and pool that faced south. Jess kept the fridge filled with my favorite snacks and the wet bar supplied with potions I preferred. Jess was twenty-one, looked sixteen, and was on the McWhortle Laboratory payroll as a consultant. I consulted her frequently.

I sat on the patio in the shade, sipping a Michelob Dark, while Jessica lolled in a chaise in the sunlight, her top off.

Her body was the stuff of dreams. She had an apricot suntan, and she just gleamed. I loved everything about her. And if I was three times as old as she, so what?

"Have you been working hard?" she asked lazily.

"Too hard," I said. "But I've got to make a lot of money.

Baby needs new shoes."

"You better believe it," she said, laughing. "What are you working on now?"

I enjoyed discussing business with Jessica. My wife couldn't care less. Gertrude wants to talk about her garden and when are we going to buy a summer place in North Carolina. But Jess was really interested in the work being done at the lab. I had warned her never to repeat what I told her, and I figured she was smart enough to know that her income depended on her discretion.

"We landed a big government research contract," I told her, and explained how we hoped to develop a testosterone pill that would increase a soldier's aggressiveness.

She listened, fascinated. "You think it will really work?

"It may or it may not. But we get paid either way so how can we lose?"

She rose and came over to stand close to me. I put an arm about her and leaned close to kiss her flat stomach. She ran a palm over my bald head.

"Well, if that ZAP pill works," she said, "I don't want you trying it.

You're powerful enough for me just the way you are."

"Let's go inside," I said.

I was a deca-millionaire, I lived in a nineteen-room beachfront home, I drove a white Mercedes-Benz 560SEL, but nothing I owned gave me as much pleasure as Jessica Fiddler.

Holding that young, springy body in my arms made me young again, I could forget my hairless scalp, dentures, a ticker that keeps acting up. Making love to Jess was turning back the clock, to a time when I thought I'd live forever.

I liked to think I gave her something, too. I don't mean just the house, the salary, the gifts. I mean understanding companionship, a real interest in her health, her feelings, her hurts and her dreams. I also liked to think she enjoyed my lovemaking. She continually said she did and if actions speak louder than words, she was telling the truth, she would do anything I asked her to do.